Unfair
by lareepqg
Summary: Jester ruminates in the soggy mess of his broken heart. Another contribution to Arc#2 of our story game.


_A/N: This story is a part of a series being written by the Jane and the Dragon fanfiction. A complete list of linked stories (Arc#1 and Arc #2) can be found in my profile._

* * *

With less grace or agility than perhaps his limbs are generally accustomed, Jester's foot catches on the low jamb of the tavern's threshold. The forward push of his momentum nearly sends him sprawling into the slop and muck of the street, but alas, he is still lithe and limber as ever. With all the nimbleness of the greatest - and perhaps most underrated - of acrobats, Jester twists mid-stumble, turning what might have been a _most_ embarrassing fall into a showy (if somewhat unexpected) cartwheel.

Misfortune's hand avoided, Jester looks around, and is disappointed no one seems to have noticed his little impromptu performance, but bows anyway. Bending at the waist as if he has the full attention of the king and queen, making a little flourish with his hand.

If the various ladies and gentlemen of Kippertown had missed his acrobatics, well, more's the pity for them. He is after all, in possession of clever and sprightly reflexes. A natural talent honed with long seasons of practice and imaginative application.

No thanks to that villain and his thugs.

Jester is, as he is every morning, thankful to still retain full possession of his talents - physical or intellectual - despite the horror which befell them all at the end of summer.

Having been declared healed by the queen's own doctor, Jester is quite pleased to once again utilize his talents. To thumb his nose at Hel or waggle his derriere at Koalemos with his impressive displays of dexterous agility.

Tavern threshold be damned.

Though it _could_ be said - and he'll be the first to say so, certainly - he is rather grateful to be none the worse for wear despite the long period of inactivity of his recuperation. It had been difficult these last few weeks - nearly bordering on torturous as he felt the fragile hold of man's sanity begin to ebb away like a creeping tide - as the most _energetic_ and _talented_ entertainer in all of Kippernia, to just _sit_.

And brood.

And languish in the salted juices of the pitiful, mournful, roiling agony of his broken heart.

Such sorrow! Such _desolation_! Such _tormented_ and _painful_ woe-

The distinctive hoppy tang of an ale-borne belch burns his nose and throat as the result of this afternoon's excess rumbles up from his stomach.

Splendid.

Cartwheels _are_ excellent for digestive health.

Jester considers the taste - he's had better ale at the castle - then smooths the fabric of his wrinkled vest and readjusts his hat. Perhaps he _should_ eat something; wander through the faire and charm a pie or apple off a pretty vendor. He's been in the tavern since mid-day at least, and cannot remember eating anything significant at breakfast.

Not that he can't _afford_ to just purchase simple fare. Certainly, he could. His purse is heavy enough with coin, nearly filled thanks to his latest melodic venture, but it is the _allure o_ f the charming that appeals more than the food itself.

He takes a step with the honest intention of finding sustenance of substinance, and discovers his traitorous feet tangling yet again.

Yes, a soupcon of foodstuffs is _unquestionably_ in order. Just how much has he imbibed? He cannot recall.

Jester endeavors to focus, squinting his eyes at nothing while he digs around in what is usually the dazzlingly accurate cache of his memory. He seems to remember having an indeterminate number of drinks - a non-answer if there ever was one - but manages to narrow it down somewhat. He remembers the maid refilling three or four tankards of ale - certainly not more than five - but is his recollection correct? He can count how many times he had _seen_ the serving girl refill his cup, but - how many times had she topped it off, outside of his keen eye?

He knows he didn't _pay_ for any of his ale, so he is unable to form a definitive conclusion via the count of his coin.

His alcoholic beverages are now, as they always have been, free of charge no matter what tavern he wanders into. As the king's troubadour, he is welcomed with open arms and warm bosoms, so long as he favors the patrons with a rousing tale, a bombastic ballad, or a soul-wrenching song.

That, and maintains his reputation for being on his best behavior. And isn't he - the jolly fool with secret tendre of courtly worship - always the gentleman?

 _Of course he is._

Because he's never, not since he had first discovered the wondrous creatures God himself had blessed men with, _ever_ considered indulging in baser activities of - _a physical nature_ \- with one of his female admirers.

Or male, for that matter.

His heart has always been singularly devoted - beat true, fierce, _staunchly_ constant - to his other half.

Well, to Jane at least.

It is _quite_ apparent she is _Gunther's_ other half; though the acceptance of his friends' happiness does nothing to soothe the cracked pulse of his chapped, aching heart.

Jester shakes his head - a vain attempt to clear the fog which threatens to settle there.

Normally he prefers not to indulge so heavily; Jester knows he is in possession of a very poor and unhappy brain for drinking. He can't help but feel drink - be it ale or wine or spirits - is a great provoker of three things: red noses such as the one which regularly mars Sir Ivon's visage, sleep - which he is quite ... _tired_ of thanks to the queen's coddling - and micturition.

The last needing no further investigation.

Unfortunately, due to the unequivocal success of his most recent ballad, Jester is continually inundated with requests to perform it - pleas which are usually negotiated and lubricated with a tankard of watered-down tavern ale.

And what a success his ballad _is_.

With each strummed chord, each dulcet verse, his ballad soars higher in the hearts and minds of his musical devotees. He can hardly venture outside the castle without being mobbed with pleas - especially from the female set - who listen with rapturous attention as it falls from his lips. And then, him having finished, begging another tune, and another, offering to fill his cup for his trouble.

And why not?

Jester, all arrogance aside, knows it is rather well-written, and knows first-hand the author is nothing short of a lyrical and musical genius. Besides, what's not to love? His ballad has all the necessary earmarks of a grandiose and lasting tale. Love, longing, great acts of heroism, a relatable, hometown hero and heroine, a villain as beauteous as he is evil, and - always a crowd favorite - a satisfyingly gory ending.

Jester's ballad is a hit, and with each repetition, grows in fame.

He looks around, studying the crowd around him. No doubt if he were in possession of his lute he could strum just the first few chords and several passersby would chime in the opening verse.

Not that he is solely responsible for all performances. No. Back when he'd still been under orders to _rest_ and _relax,_ Jester had spent several long nights acting as scribe - immortalizing his words with ink and parchment. His efforts had spread his words far and wide; yes, his song is well known, though he would eschew all fame for a cup of ale and a sigh from under copper curls.

Besides, it will not be long before the _author_ is forgotten, and only the heroes' fame is remembered.

The _heroine_ , to be precise.

 _Jane._ _Oh - the marvelous and winsome Jane._

The kingdom's own darling, a woman of nobility who has thrown off the trappings of her station to fight for honor, duty, family, friends. She is strong, beautiful, fearless, and _oh so_ clever. Jane is fire-maned perfection -

Jester's heart soars at the thought of her, only to crash unceremoniously back to earth at the thought of her other half.

Gunther, the brooding dark knight with the hidden soul of a poet - Jester tries, and fails, to suppress an eye roll at the thought of it - though he knows Gunther is a man, _a good man,_ who would sacrifice himself for his lady love. Hadn't he nearly done just that? Bodily thrown his safety, reputation, and future to the wind to keep Jane herself safe? Gunther has certainly proven himself time and again - far more than Jester himself - and won the heart of the fair maiden.

Jester chuckles ruefully. The irony is not lost on him; a lovelorn poet who sings - thrice daily or more - of losing his suit to his rival - a rival who won his beloved's heart with a poem.

 _A sarding poem._

He appreciates the congruent perfection of it, even it it hurts.

And it _hurts._

But they are happy - disgustingly and beautifully happy - and that is what matters, isn't it?

Jester wonders if the copies of his ballad - the ones he'd scribed while confined to the sickbed - have made it to his colleagues. Friends and fellow bards he'd met during his travels with the king and his extended time at court.

He'd even given a copy to a travelling minstrel, after teaching him the chords over a long, drunken evening at the tavern. Soon, very soon, Gunther and Jane's deeds will be famous throughout Kippernia and beyond, if they're not already.

Jester hopes Gunther does not mind everyone knowing about his secret love of verse and rhyme.

Or his not-so-secret adoration of the Lady Jane.

One would have to be _blind_ not to have seen that.

 _Ahem._ Well.

Jester himself does not claim to be of any great learned intellect, or even remotely self-aware.

Much like Gunther himself.

This elicits a giggle - surely an odd sound coming from a grown man in motley dyed to resemble so many marigolds and pink daisies - and a passing maid gives him wide berth. But his laughter is more mirth than malicious satisfaction, and reminds himself that he and Gunther are _friends._

 _Good,_ steadfast, friends.

Hadn't Gunther's scowling countenance been the first he'd seen when he'd woken from his injured state?

Enemies, as far as Jester is aware, do _not_ sit in vigil at one another's sickbed.

Unless Gunther had been waiting to enure Jester's demise?

Well ...well ...well _bollocks_ to that.

The world spins a bit, rotates on its axis just the _teeny,_ _tiniest_ of bits, but it's enough to remind him he's still standing outside the tavern, staring at everything and nothing, as people come and go to the faire. Maybe, _just maybe,_ Jester's musings are evidence that he had _not_ kept a close enough eye on his tankard.

Another young woman, her hair covered by the most horrid of lacy confections ever conceived by man, _the wimple,_ gives him a shy, inviting smile as she passes by. Jester nods and tips his hat, setting his bells jingling to the tune of her delighted titters.

The small act almost sends him toddling, _again,_ and he decides _perhaps_ discretion is the better part of valor, and he should find himself somewhere to sit for a while, _then_ seek out some sort of sustenance. With a jaunty hop to his step, Jester makes his way over to where a small bench is set against the tavern wall.

The faire is bustling - people come and go with busy intent - and he enjoys watching them for an hour before his eyes land on the object of his heart's desire.

 _Gunther's_ _heart,_ his mind amends - but his chest pulls hollow with the truth of it.

Pepper and Jane are picking through the stalls and he wants - nay - _needs_ to wander over and join them. Tell them jokes to make them laugh, shower them with pretty compliments to make them blush, reveal the tortured pangs of his heart to see her eyes - _Jane's_ eyes - look up at him with shining, adoring wonder because she reciprocates his feelings and _loves him -_

The thought stops him short. Because she _doesn't,_ does she? She loves _Gunther_ and while he is happy for them - _he is, truly he is -_ he is not quite ready to accept the full reality of her rejection.

No, no.

Those two are not for him - though if he's going to fully settle into his role of the lovesick fool, he should _really_ start carrying around a quill, some parchment, his lute.

Who _knows_ what masterpiece his broken heart will produce next? No doubt it will posses the power to make the very angels weep.

He should just go over. Let the cuts and wounds bleed, let his angst fill his creative reservoir. He's not a coward, but he _has_ been avoiding Jane of late; a vain attempt to allow his poor heart time to heal. He's been avoiding Gunther as well - an amused smirk tugs at his lips - but that's been more to avoid a beating for his ... _lyrical_ portrayal of the man in his ballad.

They might be friends - he might even love Gunther in an odd, distantly resentful way - but the big squire could be frightening when angry.

But Gunther is on patrol, and Jester misses Jane's bright eyes and honest laughter. The girls are nearing the end of the faire - perhaps he can walk back to the castle with them?

It would be worth it - the pain in his heart - to spend even a few minutes in her company? Wouldn't it?

They're laughing, giggling and lighting up the very air around them with their gaiety, and _how_ he wants to be a part of that. It would be _wonderful_ to be in the presence of such innocent mirth.

Jester stands and brushes himself off - hopefully he doesn't smell _too_ heavily of ale and over-amorous tavern girls - and runs a hand through his hair before replacing his hat.

He's just taken his first step when he sees Pepper stiffen - Jane is leaning into her friend's shoulder - and Jester follows her line of sight.

Gunther.

Gunther is back from patrol and -

 _Holy hell_ , Jane positively radiates happiness at the sight of him. If she'd been shining before, she is now assuredly impossible to look at directly.

And Gunther - who knew he could even _smile,_ let alone shine like the moon who has seen the sun after chasing it so long?

Jester sighed.

He still loves her, has loved her since they were _children_ ; it will take time for him to move on from such a long-standing infatuation - but he _is_ happy for her. Happy for his friend Gunther, too. Happy for _them._

It hurts of course - _dear lord it hurts -_ but maybe not so much as before.

At least he has his words, his song. And ale - good ale is a familiar creature, if well used. Give him a mug of ale, a cup of wine, and he'll bury all his unhappiness. In the wine cup is a little silver well, where if truth there be, then truth doth dwell.

 _Shite._ And him without a pen.

The crowd ebbs and he sees Jane take Gunther's hand. She says something to annoy him, so he tweaks a curl, and Jane is laughing - laughing in a different way than she's ever laughed at any of Jester's jokes - and before they disappear into the crowd Gunther wraps one arm around Jane's waist and plants a lingering kiss on her neck.

 _Yup._ That is _quite_ enough self-flagellation for the day.

Course decided, Jester stands up, turns around, and takes himself directly back into the tavern - suddenly thankful for the lascivious smiles and brazen hands of his fans. Today he will make a concerted effort to enjoy their attentions, to drink himself right out of his five senses.

Pray they do not fall in love with _him_ \- as he had with his wondrous Jane - for his own affections will be falser than vows made with wine.

Or ale, as it were.


End file.
